


Mother Lulu

by Zighana



Category: On My Block (TV), Pose (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Backstory, Canon Queer Character of Color, Character Death, Closeted Character, Crossover, Documentary, F/F, F/M, Family, Future Fic, Gen, HIV/AIDS, LGBTQ Character of Color, Lesbian Relationships, Paris is Burning elements, Queer Relationships, ballroom culture, mother figure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19974772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zighana/pseuds/Zighana
Summary: Lulu, reeling from the loss of her lover, finds healing through doing what she never thought was capable: Being a mother to someone who's never had one.





	1. Prequel

“And it's important to me to be the mother  
'cause there's so many little kids that I have to look out for.  
Although they don't listen to me and they buck my authority,  
I still think I rule it pretty well. They like me.”   
\- Pepper LaBeija, Paris is Burning (1990)

**Summer, 2018**

Lulu prided herself on being classy. 

She walked with her head held high, she dissolved conflicts with a soft voice and a healthy dose of shade, and she could cut someone to pieces without raising her voice. 

As she walks down the block, in her finest clothes (half of which she stole in ‘96), clutching Candy’s tired and true hammer like it’s the thing to do, this isn’t her at her classiest. The looks of men, women, and children enunciate that this isn’t classy at all. This is some banji shit, reserved for the girls who ain’t got a lick of sense and will slice your face if she thought you were prettier than her. 

She isn’t a girl anymore; she’s a woman. A woman with a whole identity, a career, a spouse…

Deceased spouse. 

She clutches the hammer tighter. 

She eyes the run-down house to her right and turns. 

There, eyeing her, are men twice her size, strewn around the porch, dressed in tank tops and socks that touch their knees. They, these walking stereotypes, are smirking and whistling at her like a piece of meat.

“Ay, chica, what you doin’ with that hammer? I got a long, nail you can drive home.” One of them comments, humping the air. 

She really wants to crack him upside his head. Lord knows she wants to. But she’s not here for him. She’s here for that piece of trash staring her down, thinking his tear-drop is going to frighten her.

“You,” She points the hammer at him like a gavel, “I want my shit back.”

“What shit?” He asks, jutting his chin at her.

“Don’t play dumb with me. The box. You have it. Either you give it here, or I’m cracking your head open like a coconut.” 

Ooh’s and laughter erupt. 

“That why you brought that old ass hammer?” He asks. He takes a sip of his Red Bull. She charges at him, only to be hoisted up by one of the men. She swings the hammer as hard as she can, connecting with flesh and hearing a satisfying shriek. She’s released, and she charges again.

She’s in his face, now. Candy’s hammer perched under her chin. Within this moment, the sounds of guns drawn feels like white noise.

“The box,” She hisses, “Now.” 

The moment of truth.

He can stare at her all he wants to, he’s far from scaring her. She’s fucked drug dealers, she’d danced for men in the cartel, and she’s faced death more times than this snot-nosed punk ever could.

He doesn’t know shit about fear.

The man backs away from her and retreats to the house, slamming the door shut so loud the bars on the house rattle and the men flinch.

Lulu clutches the hammer and prepares herself when the door swings open, only to be knocked back by the force that hit her in her stomach. On reflex, she clutches the box with a vice grip, wrapping her arms around it and pulling it closer. After gaining her composure, she sucks her teeth at the man.

“Stealing out of women’s apartments, taking their jewelry and finery like you don’t have a mother or a father.”

Her Bronx accent peeks through, making the man prick his ears up. 

“I’m old enough to be your mother.” Lulu muses, eyeing him up and down. It’s a Californian summer and he’s wearing a dark blue flannel, buttoned up, with black shorts that stop under his knees with crisp white socks and canvas sneakers. Despite his questionable fashion choices and lack of class, his face almost makes up for it. In another time, Lulu would find him cute. Attractive, even; give Ricky a run for his money in the Butch Queen category. 

She sees his eyes for the first time and her bitterness melts away.

She sees a motherless child, staring right back at her. 

Call it mother’s intuition, or Blanca’s spirit haunting her, she reaches out and to touch his face. The man slaps her hand away. 

“Where is your mother?” She asks, her soft tone foreign to her. She hasn’t used a tone like that since…

“Get the fuck off my property.” The man snaps. Gone was his calmness; he’s angry, a rage in him that she knows she’d created. 

She turns her nose up at him, shoving Candy’s hammer and marches off the porch, letting these hoodrats get a good view of her red bottoms as she sashays down the block to her apartment.

“I’m home,” she announces to her empty living room. She turns on the lights, sets down the box and opens it.

Newspaper clippings, photos of years that had past, obituaries that she laminated, all made way to a small Polaroid. 

It’s a woman with dark skin and voluminous hair that fans over the pillow she’s on. She lies on her stomach, sleeping.

Lulu thumbs the photo, trying to bite back the tears.

“I miss you. So much,” her voice cracks. She settles for kissing the photo and sticking it to her refrigerator.

She sits at the dining room, fingers holding onto the remote. She turns to her right, greeted by an empty armchair with a crocheted doily that’s collecting dust. 

Looking away, she presses play.

_“I like to think that...when you come to New York, you...you reinvent yourself.” A black woman says, holding Lulu’s hand. Lulu leans on her shoulder, looking off into the distance._

_“You become whoever you want to be. You can start over here and become someone new. There’s no place like New York.”_

As the documentary goes through the motions, Lulu drifts off to sleep, holding onto her wedding ring like a lifeline.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peek into the past.

**2 Weeks Ago**

Lulu stands, watching the casket sink into the plot. When the casket has been lowered, she drops a rose into the grave. 

“We’ll meet again, my love.” She whispers to the grave. 

“Come with me, baby. We got some good food in the repass.” A kind woman clamps a hand on Lulu’s shoulder.

“I don’t know if I’m welcome. I’ll go home.” Lulu replies, gingerly taking the woman’s hand off her shoulder.

“But you’re...her wife. I may not agree with your lifestyle but you deserve to be among family.” The woman tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Time had not been kind to her. 

“Y’all aren’t my family. She was all I had left.” Lulu crosses her arms, staring at the grave. 

The woman wrings her handkerchief.

“It doesn’t have to be like that.” The woman says, her voice barely above a whisper. 

The two women eye each other. After a pause, Lulu says, “I’ll come around when I’m ready.” 

“I understand. Take all the time you need.” The woman nods, squeezing Lulu’s hand.

~~~

Lulu takes the uncomfortable stroll up to her apartment, and notices her door is ajar. 

“Oh, fuck no,” She mutters under her breath. 

Taking out her pocket knife, she opens the door and cautiously steps inside.

Her place had been ransacked; her valuables gone, her living room in disarray and couches knocked over and gutted. She goes to her kitchen and finds her silverware missing. She steps into her bedroom and sees her mattress flipped over and bedframe moved, her dressers ripped out of their shells, and her closet torn to shreds. 

Her perfumes, her furs, her jewelry and finery snatched from her. 

She eyes the top of the dresser.

They had better not…

Ice falls to her stomach.

They _did_. 

Her box is missing.

“Those fucking dope fiends.” She snarls. 

**2 Weeks Ago**

~~~ 

“We got to be quick. In and out. Whatever you see that’s worth money, grab it.” 

Spooky cracks open the door and once it’s open his men flood the home, grabbing and tearing at whatever they could access. 

He keeps note of the small details, the photos strewn on the walls and bookshelves, the Hers and Hers home decor that’s being destroyed by his men. He sees the rainbow flag and one that has pink, blue, and white. 

What flag is that one?

He makes his way down the hall to the bedroom, his men tearing open pillows and ripping fur coats out of the closet. 

He opens the dressers and pulls out clothes, trying to find anything valuable. Nothing, save for…

His thumb hits a button and loud buzzing makes him jump and scramble to shut it off. Chucking it, he sifts through the items, and after finding nothing, shuts the top dresser. He eyes the closet and sees a wooden box perched atop the dresser, untouched. 

He grabs the box, opening it. 

It’s not what he expected: photos, obituary clippings, holiday cards, magazine clippings, and CD’s with the marker-written labels smeared. He pulls out a photo from the clutter, eyeing the dark-skinned black woman in red lingerie, leaning back on a heart-shaped bed, her hair tousled and her red lips showing off pearly-white teeth. Her curvaceous body and plump breasts makes his ears tingle and his neck hot. 

Turning over the back, he sees the cursive title.

 _Valentine’s Day In Our New Home, 1996._

This woman is someone’s mother by now. 

Tucking the photo in his back pocket, he closes the box and leaves, greeted by his men with arms full of furs and expensive clothing.

“Alright,” he tells his men, “Let’s head out.”

~~~

That night, Spooky sits cross-legged, eyeing the mess he’d made from the emptied wooden box.

He tries his best to sort through the box, but it’s so many papers, so many documents, so many CD’s and Polaroids...it made his eyes hurt. There’s nothing worthy in this box; he feels like a voyeur, eyeing these very intimate slices of some strangers’ life. It doesn’t stop him from pocketing risque photos of the dark-skinned woman and her lover, an exotic-looking woman with light brown hair and an ass that won’t quit. 

He knows it’s wrong, but he’s a man, a simple one at that. 

The video plays in the distance.

**1991**

“The Category is...Lesbian Femme Realness!”

Whitney Houston’s “I’m Your Baby Tonight” plays over the speakers. Lulu sits at the tables, watching and observing the lesbian women voguing and dancing with remote interest. Blanca is watching the women, giving words of encouragement as Pray Tell tears one of them, who was unfortunate enough to wear that tawdry outfit tonight, to pieces.

“Judges gimme your scores to the dyke in the banana yellow! 6, 5, 5, 3! Oof, honey. Summer must be over because that score is ice cold!”

The crowd erupts in laughter. Blanca shouts, “It’s alright, baby!” but it’s drowned out in the crowd’s laughter.

Better luck next time, Banana Yellow! Next up--” Pray Tell pauses. 

The next up vogues in sharp angles towards him, her curly ponytail whipping every which-way. She’s new, it seems; Lulu’s never seen her face before. 

She’s got smooth dark skin that seems to glow in the light, deep-set eyes with lips that are plump and shining like a candy apple. Her black hair is slicked down to a low ponytail, accentuated by her large bamboo door knocker earrings with the name “Sandy” stamped on each one. She’s got high waisted jeans, a jean jacket to match, and a bodice that droops low enough to give cleavage and a chunky gold chain bouncing on her chest with each movement. 

Her look is different, alluring...but those ratty tatty Witch’s Brew boots kill the look. 

Pray Tell notices the shoes as well.

Lulu closes her eyes and holds her head.

“Okay, Ms. Banji...looking real Banji with those Bitches’ Brew boots you got on? When did you get those? ‘76?” 

“I got ‘em from your mama’s closet.” The girl replies. Lulu hears a Southern twang in her tone. Pray Tell makes a face.

“I think you got them from my mama’s _casket_ ‘cuz them shoes look _dug up_!” Pray Tell retorts, mimicking her accent.

Lulu bites back a laugh. 

“Judges give me your scores for the Dyke Who Lives in The Shoe...9, 8, 7, 9. Not bad. Everybody clap it up for The Wicked Witch of the South. She got heart and balls of steel.”

The woman nods her head and crosses her arms.

After Pray Tell moves on to the next contestant, the woman leaves, Lulu trailing right after her.

**Present**

**2 weeks ago**

“What do you mean you can’t find the ones responsible?” 

The police officer sighs, plopping Alka-Seltzer into his water.

“You have no security cameras, no witnesses, and the people that did this left no DNA evidence-”

“-They went out my door with $50,000 worth of valuables, _including_ some of my underwear. Whoever did this is a criminal and a _pervert_!” 

Several police officers turn their head. Lulu deflates. 

“I have personal items that were stolen from me. Specifically a box that has memories of the people I love that passed away. I just buried my wife and I come home to my house ransacked. Imagine how I feel-”

“-I understand that, but understand you live in gang territory. Any police interference, or they catch you talking to the police, and we’re going to come back to your apartment for a homicide investigation.”

The police officer leans in close.

“I’m trying to protect you. Please...drop it. We’ve done all we could at this point and as of now, the case is closed. Maybe next time, don’t live in the hood with $50,000 worth of valuables.”

Lulu smacks his desk.

“Thanks for nothing.” She spits out, storming out of the police station.

~~~

 **Present Day**

It’s 3 in the morning when Spooky gets a phone call. 

“Yeah. I’ll be on my way, what’s… _what_?”

~~~

Spooky stares down an old brown suitcase, clutching his nose. 

Chuy managed to open it just a bit, and already the smell is spreading. 

“What the fuck was that lady up to?” Chuy asks, snapping on gloves.

Taking a step back, Spooky watches the suitcase open and revealed its contents. 

It’s something wrapped up in pleather, but closer inspection shows it’s a body, curled up in fetal position, drenched in blackish purple fluid.

The smell will forever be etched in Spooky’s memory for as long as he lives.

“Who the fuck _is_ this?”


End file.
